


Letters On The Walls

by Dynamic_Ideation



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Am I a masochist?, Blood and Injury, Character Death, F/M, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Happy anniversary to me?, Heavy Angst, Wakes & Funerals, it would explain a lot, probably, the ending is about as happy as it can get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5345021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dynamic_Ideation/pseuds/Dynamic_Ideation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When The Flash is killed in a freak accident, his widow is left to pick up the pieces.</p><p>"All she can think about is that any moment he’ll walk through the door wondering what the fuss is all about, and she’ll be able to hold him in her arms again, and kiss him all over, keep him hostage in their bed and inform him that his days as The Flash are through.</p><p>She waits, but he isn’t coming. What is she going to do?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters On The Walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babydex17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babydex17/gifts).



> Today is the anniversary of the very first time I ever posted fanfiction, so I wanted to celebrate! Happy anniversayr to me! This is a really weird fic to use in celebration, right? Once again, this is BabyDex17's fault. Blame her. I'm very proud of this one though, so that's why I let her encourage me to bad behavior. 
> 
> Okay, so, I hate to admit it, but I cried my way through writing this. Multiple times. Seriously, I made this as sad as possible. It's intense and I think it might get triggery for anyone who doesn't like guns, so please be aware of that. The ending is hopeful, though!

“A kiss for my princess,” he’d said, lifting four-year-old Dawn over his head and bringing her in for smooches on her cheek. He tickled her, and she giggled and wriggled in her pink frilly tutu. “A kiss for my ninja,” He’d turned four-year-old Don upside down and shook him, much to the boy’s delight, before righting him and kissing him as well. Iris had been prepared to gently scold him until he swept her up by her waist and gave her a big wet kiss on the lips. She couldn’t stay mad. She could only kiss him back.

“I love you,” he’d said to each of them. “See you when I get home.”

That was the morning. It’s evening now, and she’s getting the kids washed for dinner. Barry’s late, as usual, and today it’s annoying the dickens out of her because the kids are squirrelly and she could use his help. _What’s taking him so long?_ She wonders. As soon as the thought comes she starts to feel uneasy. She tries to shake it, but it won’t go away, won’t lessen. Her chest start to feel tight, like she’s having a panic attack. It quickly grows sharp, like it’s escalating to a heart attack. _What_ the _hell?_ She feels a pain shoot down her side.

Something’s not right.

She calls Cisco. “He told me he was on his way home like thirty minutes ago.”

“Something’s wrong. If it was a half hour, he should have made it 29 minutes ago.”

“I’ll call him.” Iris wraps her arm around her middle and grimaces. “Find him, Cisco, please, he’s in trouble. I feel like he’s in trouble.” When the pain finally goes away she feels a sense of physical relief, but emotionally… a massive sense of despair overwhelms her. Then emptiness, then loneliness. The feeling is so strong it staggers her. Her urgency level goes through the roof.

She pulls out her phone; seven twenty-seven. Way past time for him to be home. He’s not answering her calls or texts. He never does this, ever. Something’s gone terribly, horribly wrong. Panic. Everything is panic.

Dinner starts burning as Iris calls around, frantic, trying to figure out how she can get the kids in the car to go look for him. She's managed to get them into some decent clothing, and is ushering them towards the door when she hears the knock. It’s a couple of uniforms. She knows them, very well in fact; Patrick and Jacobs. Why didn’t they call her, tell her what was going on? She opens the door and sees their

hats in their hands. Their somber, rueful expressions. She squints her eyes and shakes her head. _No. He’s on his way home. He’ll be here soon. I have his dinner._ “We love you too, Babe. Be safe. See you when you get home.” She’d said those things to him. She’d meant all three sentences.

Patrick starts, slowly. He tries to look her in the eye as he wrings his hat. “Iris…”

_Someone punched him in his ribs. At least, that’s what it felt like at first. In an instant, it became fire coursing through his veins. He crossed his arms over his burning chest and slowed from a 500 mile-an-hour cruising speed to five at most. He realized his chest was covered in something wet, hot and sticky. He stopped to look at his hands; the stickiness that covered them was the same color as his suit, but darker, more ominous. As he tried to lift his arms, molten-lava pain flooded his entire torso; he could feel air whistling in his chest, but he couldn’t breathe. The pain… the world began to spin, and he tilted over and fell hard._

I’m dying, _he realized, as green grass filled his vision and scraped his cheek._ Not like this, _he begged, to whoever was listening, whoever was up there._ My kids… _He suddenly felt so tired. If he could just rest for a minute, he could get back up, just one minute. It didn’t hurt anymore, maybe it was helping…he had to get back to them._ Iris.

 _“Sir? Oh_ my _God, it’s the Flash! Get an ambulance down here, right now!” They yelled to their companion. To him, “Mr. Flash, you’re going to be alright. Help is on the way, just hold on.”_

_“Iris,” Barry mumbled._

_“_ _Do something, there’s so much blood,” They were crying._ “Do _something!” He wanted to tell them not to cry, everything would be all right, but all he could think about was his wife._

_“Iris,” he murmured again. At least, he tried to. He fought to keep his eyes open. Just a few minutes…sleep…_

The realization hits her, like a sledgehammer. She barely hears what they say. Her shock backs her up against the foyer wall. She falls against it and slides down, ass hitting the floor hard. The back of her hand covers her mouth, which is open in a grotesque grimace, an imitation of a scream, but she’s trying so hard for it that nothing will come out.

She can feel the muscles in her chest and stomach become strained as her body tries to push out the sobs. She curls into herself, her hip bone grinding on the cold floor as she pulls her knees in and her forearm across her midsection.

He was doing one last run, she later finds out, on the edge of town. Domestic abuse. He saved the battered wife in no time at all and was coming home to her. At first he wasn’t going to do it, but he was The Flash. It was his job. It was why he was running late.

While he was on the road some dumb hick accidentally shot off his pistol trying to clean it. The bullet had traveled from hundreds of feet away, dropped out of the sky, and punched through right between his ribs, doing massive damage in his chest as it made its way out through his abdomen. Someone saw him drop on the side of the road, like a stone. He bled to death before they could even call for help.

He’s not supposed to die like this. Not during the equivalent of a routine traffic stop. When she’s finally able to scream it comes out long and haggard, wretched and pitiful. He can’t be gone. He can’t be. All she can think about is that any moment he’ll walk through the door wondering what the fuss is all about, and she’ll be able to hold him in her arms again, and kiss him all over, keep him hostage in their bed and inform him that his days as The Flash are through.

She waits, but he isn’t coming. What is she going to do? The kids start crying in the background. She finds herself wishing, in some far away space, that she could hold it together for them. But that can’t happen right now. She realizes she’s still screaming. “Get the kids, Jacobs,” she hears the voice from far away. “Find Chief West.”

They have to sedate her.

Curse this godforsaken city and its need for a hero, she thinks as she floats on the drugs.

How is the city going to help her raise two small fatherless children? When they cry for their father, is Central City going to explain that it has taken him from them? Who will volunteer to cover the gas bill in the winter, the AC bill in the summer? Who will show her complete devotion and unconditional love? What is she supposed to do when she needs him beside her? Inside her?

Joe and Henry come to get her and the kids, and Joe nearly has to carry her out of the hospital because she can’t even hold herself up. She leans her forehead on the dashboard and moans, “He died suffering, in pain, in some gutter like a stray animal. Away from everyone who loved him. All he did was give to everyone. He didn’t deserve this. My poor baby,“ she wails, over and over. “My poor baby. My poor baby!” Joe has to pull over so they can calm her and the kids down.

Her fathers tuck her into her childhood bed and stand vigil. She hasn’t the foggiest idea how they’re holding together so well, but she’s eternally grateful. The kids are on either side of her, asleep in the crooks of her arms, to young to fully grasp why Mommy’s so upset and why Daddy isn’t home yet.

“Dad, Henry,” she stares into space, barely able to speak from the combination of the tranquilizers and the hoarseness from crying. “What am I going to do?” Joe takes a deep breath. “You’re going to make it through tonight. Then you’re going to find a way to make it through tomorrow. Then you’re going to make it through each day, one at a time. You’re going to think about all the good times, and hold on to the kids, until it the pain becomes manageable enough for you to live again.”

Impossible. A fresh round of tears courses down Iris’ face.

The city now knows Barry’s name. They discovered it as he was dying in the street. There’s a massive outpouring of sympathy, and the citizens put together a fund to help pay off their mortgage and pay for the kids’ college tuition. People sing his praises and organize a candlelight memorial. They send her letters. All these fucking letters.

It’s very touching and all, but she doesn’t want any of it. She wants Bear.

The dumb hick sobs on camera when he’s arrested, begging leniency, begging forgiveness. He keeps saying how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could take it back. How guilty he feels, murdering the city’s champion, leaving her and the kids without him.

 _Fuck him,_ Iris thinks. _Let him burn._

The funeral is a blur. It seems like all of Central City has shown up, and while her husband deserves to be paid all of their respects and more, they exhaust her. She can’t help but think this is their doing. She tries to hold her head up, but all she can do is stare at the casket and think about how badly she wants to go with him. She manages to make it through the whole thing. Barry would be proud of her for that.

Afterward, the gang trades stories in her living room as they look over pictures. Stories of his heroism, but also stories about his humanity. The way he would trip over his feet and stumble over his words. His brilliance, his passion, his dedication. “There was never a moment he wasn’t in love with you, Iris. You took such good care of each other,” Henry tells her. She feels grateful to have so very many memories. She will always have them. She loves Barry Allen, and that will never change.

Cisco plays with the kids while Caitlin helps with the food. Felicity rubs her back in slow circles. Oliver just looks lost, but at least he’s here. She lets them try to comfort her; it’s better than having to do this alone.

That evening she finds that Oliver left her a check with a lot of zeroes on it, claiming it’s the least he could do. She stains it with her tears. She would have made him take it back, except she knew he wouldn’t hear of it, and she was going to need it. In the corner a bucket of mail piles up but she refuses to even entertain right now. So much after only three days.

That night when the kids start crying for their daddy she locks herself in the bathroom so they won’t see her break down and heave the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. Thank God for their grandfathers, who comfort them as best they can.

More letters start to come. Soon she’s drowning in letters from people Barry helped. On the fourth day, with trembling hands she opens one. Out falls a picture. It’s a kid. Jake, age seven, it says on the back.

_I want to thank Mr. Flash. He saved my life. He is my hero. Now he is an angel in heaven._

There is a crayon drawing of himself and The Flash, on a hill, under a tree, rainbow overhead. Barry is smiling. He has wings.

She thought she’d run out of tears; she manages to find a lot more. The difference is, this time she feels an iota of something that resembles joy.

"You did good, Babe, you did so much good.” She says out loud as she hugs the pictures to her chest.

She opens more and reads about the people he saved from a burning building, from jumping off a bridge to commit suicide, from metas. She sees pictures of them, and they come in all shapes and sizes. Some send care packages, gift cards, coins from upended piggy banks. All wanting to show their thanks to their hero.

Her solution to carry her from moment to moment, she decides, is to hug her children and open a new letter from one of the people barry helped. She doesn’t eat or sleep much the next few days. She hugs the twins and reads. As soon as she feels the sadness she opens a letter and reads it, combatting the pain. She starts to frame them, plaster them to the walls with glue sticks from the kitchen drawers. From baseboard to ceiling she pastes them up. When there’s no room left on the walls she gets a ladder for the ceiling. She does it until she can’t stand anymore, and she feels dizzy and falls to the ground, head spinning.

For the first time, she feels a modicum of hope. For the first time, a tiny ray of light cuts through the storm clouds that have hung over her head since that fateful day. Is it possible she can figure out how to go on? She’s not sure how to ever be happy again, how to enjoy life, how to find true joy, besides her children. But when she looks at them, she sees her beloved husband, and she knows he would want her to press on. Maybe, just maybe, she _can_ make it to tomorrow.

After, she can try for another tomorrow.

And after that, who knows? Maybe one more.


End file.
